Purity
by madsthenerdygirl
Summary: It's all in the eye of the beholder. Man of Steel 'verse, since it doesn't have its own film category.


**Title: Purity**

**Rating: You have to ask? That's adorable.**

**Summary: It's all in the eye of the beholder.**

**Disclaimer: You really think so? Your adorableness just skyrocketed.**

**Author's Note: It's a bird, it's a plane… no, it's a crappy day that I could only cure by writing fanfiction!**

She's beautiful.

He was taught by his parents – his Kansas parents – to be a gentleman, to treat women well. And he has. Doesn't mean he hasn't gained some experience. He's been with brunettes and blondes, gingers, dyed neon purple… short and tall, thin and curvy, with skin ranging from snow soft to dark, shining walnut.

None were as beautiful as she is.

She's soft in all the right places, her skin warm with an occasional freckle. It flushes a charming pink color when she's embarrassed or pleased or he's kissing her in the spots that make her squirm…

She's strong, too, inside and out, and when her arms wrap around him he feels like she's not just holding his body but his soul, keeping him safe.

He was so scared that day.

At first there was only horror, a crushing, choking feeling of despair and self-hatred. How was he any different from those he fought if he was reduced to murder? How could he call himself good, let the people of this world call him a hero, when he did things like that?

After he adjusted (because he hasn't forgiven himself, and never will), he became terrified all over again. She'd seen him do it. She'd watched him snap the life out of someone.

He wouldn't be surprised if she hated him.

He hoped that she did, because if she actually feared him, he doesn't think he would have been able to live with it. She's so driven and honest, so determined and intelligent, so passionate and sincere…

She's pure. That's what she is. Lois Lane, star reporter of the Daily Planet, is so much more than she thinks she is. She's a representation of all these humans can be, the potential that they can tap into. She is their honest ambition, their determined intelligence, their compassionate open-mindedness, and their searching wonder. When he holds her, he feels like he's touching something precious, something sacred.

And she welcomes him. She accepts him into her heart and home like he deserves it. He wants to tell her that he's not worthy, that he's sullied his hands and his eternal soul, but apparently he's a coward as well because he just can't bring himself to do it. He's too addicted to her, to her warm embrace, her sweet skin and bright eyes.

Making love to her is the closest thing he's gotten to worship in years.

He goes to church when he can, sure, and he's always added a prayer of thanks before meals, but actual get-on-your-knees-and-adore-with-every-part-of-you r-being worship? He's never done that before. He's seen his mother do it, kneeling in front of the altar at church, her eyes wet and her mouth moving silently. But he's never been that way. Not until now.

He kisses every inch of her, tasting her, sampling her sweat. She's very responsive, pressing every soft curve of her body against him as she arches into his touch, a groan escaping from her parted lips. He drinks those sounds in, narrowing down every one of his senses until nothing in the world exists but her. Her heartbeat and pulse fill his ears, punctuated by her moans and rapid breathing. His nose is assaulted with her arousal, so heady as to make him feel intoxicated, and his every cell is on fire from what her touches have done to him. He can't see the room, the bed, or even himself really – only her.

He's careful not to hurt her, struggling to hold on as she drives him higher and higher, drawing sounds and feelings out of him that he didn't even know he was capable of. She's warm and soft and pure, so pure, under him, against him, surrounding him. He drives himself inside of her as if he can catch some of that purity, make it a part of him, try and clean the blood off his hands.

When climax hit he used to see galaxies; far-flung solar systems and nebulas, the entire universe laid bare before him like a flowered kaleidoscope, unfurling its immense, intangible beauty for a swift, eternal moment before shutting him out again.

But this time, when he comes, all that he sees is Lois.

She is his universe. She is the flower, the beauty, the thing he wishes so desperately to grasp and protect, to keep safe.

"Clark." His human name has never sounded sweeter than dripping from her lips. They're against his ear, warm and wet like the rest of her, and she whispers his name over and over again like the holiest of liturgy.

He holds her, his beacon, his ray of hope, and although his touch is gentle he is never, ever letting go.

* * *

_God_ he's beautiful.

She's far too old to get swept off her feet. She learned quickly that the men of this day and age are simply not up to the standards that women still hold for them. It's almost like they're trying to be disappointments. She'd given up hope long ago.

And then he came.

First he was a Mystery Man – tall, dark, and handsome, swooping in and saving her life. When you're in pain, one of two things happen; everything either becomes a blur, or it all stands out in crystal detail, as sharp and painful as the actual reason for your body's contortions. Being naturally observant anyway, she felt the latter. She memorized every inch of his face, those steel eyes and deceptively gentle hands.

Next he was the Hero – the best of the best, the good ol' American boy who was, incidentally, not only not American but not even Earthling. Go figure.

But oh, he did such a good job with the hero thing. Polite and stoic and wearing a tight suit that left her imagination plenty to run with…

And then… then he was Clark. He was a person. He made mistakes, broke down a little, and got a job (at her workplace, which was going to be distracting). He was a breast guy (like every white male in history) and liked Thai food.

But through it all is this thread, this shining light that she can't tear her eyes away from. The essence of who he is has always been the same, she realizes. It's the drive to stand up, to fight for what's good and true, no matter how inadequate you might feel. It's in every part of him, and it scares her.

Not like that. It scares her because she's terrified she's going to lose him. How did she end up with him, anyway? She's nobody special; she's just a little nosier than most. But she's far too selfish to admit that to him.

Yes, she thinks as she spans her hands over the planes of his chest. She's never giving him up. He's hard as… well, steel, but it's encased in the smoothest of materials, and she can trace each muscle with her tongue. She has, actually. Several times. He gives the best growls when she does it, and she can see his bones stand out against his skin as he clenches his jaw.

His sweat and tears don't taste salty at all. They taste like the clearest of mountain streams, cold and fresh, as pure as he is. He does cry, sometimes, holding her like she's his anchor in a storm and he whispers her name in a never ending prayer. Finding a rhythm with him is easy, and on nights like these she climbs atop him so that she can hold him better, let his tears wet her neck, waiting until she can kiss them away.

He's like an angel, she supposes, only better because he's not a celestial, holier-than-thou being, judging from on high. He's here, among them, with the dirt and muck and the average Joes. His soul is so clean it squeaks, and yet he spends his time with the likes of her. He could have anyone, any girl in the world, and hell, a good few men, too.

But he chooses her.

She can't fathom it. And she won't, damn it, because he's hers. She's holding him tight and never letting him go. He won't ever feel alone, won't ever feel outcast, won't ever feel broken. She might be an average human but she's not letting someone this pure, this good, break under the pressure the world puts on him. Her father always told her: _Lois, you get a good thing going you fight for it_. She's doesn't know of anything more good than the man beneath her.

He comes apart and sets her off and she swears she's drowning in the blue of his eyes. When she first saw them all that she could see was steel, but now she sees the soft ocean, the gentle depths that scream out for someone to calm them, keep them grounded.

She's gone. Gone on him, on this guy that half of the Christian fundamentalists are saying is the second coming of Christ. They're not too far off, at least in their character assessment.

He needs her. She doesn't know why it's her that he keeps coming to, but he does, and she'll offer up everything she has until there's nothing left of her, because he gives all of himself and more every day for those who see only the costume and not the soft blue jean hiding behind the steel in his eyes.

He's so pure. The least she can do is try and keep him that way.

**I must admit I was hesitant about Amy Adams in the role of Lois Lane, but I found that I liked her. I hope that you all, by extension, liked this little oneshot.**

**Reviews are can get to my heart faster than a speeding bullet, are more powerful than a locomotive, and can make any day leap from depressing to amazing in a single bound!**


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